Not My Type
by CanaanAlshea
Summary: Nope. Malik Was Definately Not His Type.  reuploaded due to extra content


Title: Not My Type Author: Yoko-cw Date: 2/26/2012 Summary: Nope. Malik Was Definately Not His Type. Alternate Universe; no card-game-blah.

BAKURA POV He's not my type, this crazy blonde who I'm unfortunate enough to call my roommate. First of all, he bothers me; he has all these little...habits. I hardly even noticed them at first but lately I notice *all of them*. For example, it never bothered me before that he only listened to the TV on a low level. I needed to sleep anyway, so why did it bother me as long as it didn't make me deaf. This stupid blonde...he listens to it on ten. Always no more, no less, no matter what time of day or the program. He refuses to change it. I can't hear anything. But he seems to hear it all a foot away, lying on his side, head balanced on his hand. He doesn't blink. (violet eyes) He simply watches informercials, cartoons, the news. Those...three...programs.

All the time.

His eating habits. Such a silly thing shouldn't be so bothersome. I've never met anyone who's manner of consumption pissed me off...but it does. Most days he stays inside, hanging upside down on the couch and humming with the commercials. He'll eat mints, bags and bags of Altoids and the smell starts to make me sick. Mints and sugar. That's his diet. He'll subsist for weeks drinking coffee and mints, running around the house cleaning and singing in some horrible foreign language (beautiful) and the windows are never dirty. Days and days drinking pots of coffee and there are empty tins stacked on the table for no reason at all. And then there's a random week where all he'll eat is sugar. He'll come home with sugar packets and pixie sticks and gummy candies. He'll blare rock and roll, lying down and singing loudly while letting sugar melt in his mouth. I count his ribs, stare at the dip of his stomach and the protruding hip bones. He subsists on false energy. He'll eat hot sauce on toast.

Alcohol. Bottles and bottles lined up according to color. Baggies of pills. We share them, and on those nights I don't remember, we get along. I always wake up with his tiny body curled up to me, arms over my torso, blonde hair sprayed across my chest. It sparkles in the mornings. At that point, I shove him off and he lands on the floor loudly, cringing because there's nothing to cushion his bones from the wood. Sometimes I'll kick him, sometimes not. Either way, he blocks his face with his arms. I crave hurting him. It's so easy.

So I do.

He sits on the couch with bruises and a giant thermos of coffee. Three am. The television glows blue, a DVD over. . "...Sorry." He smiles, and pats the space next to him. I sit and we listen to the city outside. He doesn't touch me. I don't touch him. I count the dark spaces on his arms, his cheekbones darkened and protruding. "Eat something." I grumble, chewing my nails. Malik smiles at me, holds up a baggie full of pills. A rainbow of white pink yellow blue. "I have breakfast," he rasps. "How did you afford it?", I sneer, "Who'd you have to suck off to get it." He smiles, sarcastically flipping me off while crushing a pill on the table, rubbing the dust along his gums. Repeat. Repeat. He passes me Klonopin, a handful. I take it wordlessly.

We sleep through the day. When night covers the city, when all the lights go on, is when we're charged. I sit on the couch, his tiny body curled and leaning against my legs. I run a comb through his hair, letting it slip through my fingers like water. We listen to rock and roll. And everything is fine. Again. He's fidgety, curling and uncurling his fingers in the couch cushins, checking the clock TV clock window TV... The question comes out, "Wanna go out?" "Sure," I mutter, taking a bite of my sandwich, noting that we need more peanut butter, "Where d'you want to go?" Malik is up in an instant, overjoyed that I finally want to do something with him (I prefer a solitary heist). "We should go to 'Pulse'!" he gasps, "It's been so long since we've been there they'll probably think we've gone missing and we should definately get drinks how do you feel about absinthe?" I blink, trying to take in everything he said, and all I can come up with is, "It's...alright I suppose. Are you sure you want to drink something that strong with the pills you've been taking?" He's been taking caffine pills by the handful the past three days. I'm surprised his veins haven't burst, that his kidney's are still working. I'm not a model citizen by any means, but his actions can go from exciting to frightening in a matter of minutes.

He leaps from the sofa and changes into a t-shirt, bright red to contrast with his black pants, bright blonde hair combed perfectly. Strange man. "Fine, fine," I sigh and push myself off the sofa, "I'll get the fake IDs."

He's everywhere. My blonde room mate buzzes around the dancefloor from person to person (man or woman), leeking energy and insanity from every pore. A loud, generic techno-screamo song pounds into my ears and I sip whiskey, trying to smile while babysitting so he doesn't disappear for days again. "Bakura!" He bounces back to me, grabbing my elbow, "Come and dance, dance with me, it's fantastic!" To him the world is colorful and wonderful, and he's trying to make me see it; I can respect that, but I can't leech off his moods. Sometimes I wish I could, just to keep up. His narrow hips snap and swirl to the beat, amethyst eyes sparkling and changing colors from the multicolored lights. His hands are in mine and all I can do is follow his lead and laugh. Laugh because I'm making a fool of myself, and because I don't know how else to handle him anymore. Laugh it off. Just laugh it off. He drinks and drinks like he's back in the desert, he snorts a line off of a bar stool while I chat with the bartenders. It's strange and normal, bundled together in a confusing mess.

He passes out on the sofa the minute I set him down. There is vomit on his cheek and his hair is tangled, sweaty; a badly drawn sketch is on his arm. I stroke the tattoos along his eyes and study his bronzed face. He looks so young, yet haggard. He's going mad and all I can do is watch and loan him money I stole. All I can do is shake my head and enable him. What else can I do? I sigh, "Goodnight, blondie." My bed is welcoming. Maybe he'll finally be okay in the morning. This insanity on legs? Not my type.

He's on the bathroom floor by 8 am. He sweats and shivers, muttering about being too hot and pressing his cheek against cold linolium. "I hate Japan," he whispers, possibly speaking to me, or his ghosts, "I hate the cities. I miss the desert. Shouldn't 'ave left. Tch." I roll my eyes, throw a towel on him and turn on the television. Informercials suck. 10 am goes by and I watch the news without sound.

"Bakura?" An hour later, he stumbles from the bathroom, thanking me quietly and placing the folded towel beside me on the sofa. He shuffles into the kitchen, shedding his shirt on the way, searching for a clean mug. Coffee pours and I study the scars on his back; I read it and shake my head at such a foolish ritual. "Coffee?" He holds out the pot and I shake my head, "Nope." His eyes fall, shame and fear passing over his face. I slam my palm down on the sofa, "Come sit with me. I'm sick of listening to this crap." He obeyes, sipping his drink, "Then why do you have it on?" "For the sake of noise." His head rests lightly against my shoulder, afraid of my mood after last night. He remembers coming home and he doesn't know what to say. "It's fine," I sigh; I'm hungry, but too lazy to get cereal out of the cupboard. Too far away. I'll eat later. "You wanna go out for lunch?" He shakes his head, lip curled in disgust at the mention of food. Poor hungover bastard. Again, I sigh. "Ready for bed?" It's morning now, time to sleep, recharge. He nods weakly, chugging the contents of his mug and walking into his bedroom. The door wide open, I see him curl up beneath several quilts. Before I go to bed myself, I set the trashcan in his bedroom and close the door. I hate playing nursemaid. He snores, and I smooth his eyebrows. Platinum blonde. Obnoxious.

It's silent in the night. "...Malik?" I sit up in my bed, yawning and ruffling my hair tiredly. "Malik, you here?" I am answered by the sound of the heater. I check my clock; ten pm. He shouldn't be gone yet. I sigh, wrap myself in a blanket. "Hey, blondie!" Silence. The bathroom door is open and it bothers me; we never do that. All doors remained closed. "...Malik?" I am suddenly cold. The coffee has gone sour and dirty dishes lay across the counter.

A tanned arm stretches across the doorway of the bathroom.

"Malik!"

I can't get to him fast enough and I fall to my knees, scraping them on cheap carpet, ugly colored. "Malik! Malik, wake up. C'mon!" I shake him, slap his cheeks lightly. Cold water on his face. "Malik! Hey,get up!" Silent. "...This isn't funny...!"

Plastic...? There's something tucked beneath his hand. I lift the heavy limb and swear loudly. His eyes are halfway open. I smack him harder, harder again. Nothing. "Bastard! You fucking asshole wake up!" His arms and legs are bruised by my hand. He's only wearing shorts. I shake him, hard, like I always do when angry. There is no response, no sounds other than my angry screams.

"Fuck!" I kick him, the body bonelessly shifting sideways. If I hurt him, maybe he'll wake up. He always wakes up he *always* wakes up! I rest my head on the wall and breathing hard and swearing like a drunk. He's gone. He slipped away in the night. I let him. I let him.

I sigh, smoke drifting from between my lips. He's covered now, a blanket of heavy soil and silence. I conclude he must have died during the afternoon, respiration failing from too many drugs and neglect of his own body. Pissed off, I kick dirt onto his grave and put my cigarette out on him. I write his name in Hyroglyphs in the dirt. It will never be permanent. Nothing ever is. After a moment of staring at him, waiting for him to pop out of the ground, angry at my ignorance. But he doesn't. It's only me and a body that used to be Malik.

I go home and flush all the drugs, the alcohol. I listen to his television program and clean his presense from my house. It's okay though. He wasn't my type. 


End file.
